


Blood

by jedisagefish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Cutting, M/M, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedisagefish/pseuds/jedisagefish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes his boredom out on his own skin. (Trigger warning: cutting, self-harm, blood. Consider yourself warned.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood

The patterns he could carve were fascinating, but not as fascinating as the trail of blood that would slowly draw from the wound after the skin had been split by the sharp knife he used to carve. The blood would gather, until the drop would become too heavy and slide down his skin. His skin was hot and the drop would almost feel as a relief, leaving behind a trail of blood on his otherwise pale skin.

He was patient and after every line he drew, he waited. He waited for the blood to slowly drip down his arm. Angry red lines that seemed as dark as red wine in the evening light. Sherlock liked it this way. The pain wasn’t too bad, just distracting enough and he liked to watch the blood. He liked to watch his skin puff up around the wounds, red against white. And he liked to trace older scars, opening them once more. The skin there felt different, sometimes numb in places, but at other times more sensitive than others.

Hours could pass like this. He’d lay back for a few minutes, just feeling, before the sensations would subside and he would carve a new line. By midnight his arm was full of them. Long red lines that ran across his upper arm and shorter, yet deeper, ones in the places that were harder to reach. They were all carved with a delicacy, but carelessness at the same time. And they all had but one purpose, to pass the time in a wonderful way.

It was this or drugs, he’d decided at the beginning of the night, after John had left for his date. He would have had to go out to get drugs, so the decision had been easy.

It had been months since he’d last done this. He’d almost forgotten what about it had thrilled him so in the first place. He was glad he’d rediscovered.

He was falling asleep when he became aware of footsteps and upon opening his eyes he realized John was returning late tonight. Sherlock was laying on the couch, the sharp pocketknife in one hand and his bloody arm hanging off the couch. He didn’t have the decency to hide the mess from John, who’s expression was one of utter confusion, followed by shock, followed by a combination of anger, sadness, worry and disappointment. At least, that was Sherlock’s conclusion on the matter, after having stared at John’s face across the darkened room.

“Sherlock, what the hell?!” John exclaimed a moment later, as he stepped towards his friend.

“Oh, don’t worry John,” Sherlock replied dismissively. “I did it myself.”

“I know, I can see that, Sherlock,” John retorted, obviously not comforted by Sherlock’s words, who let out a sigh. John snatched the pocket knife from his fingers, as if he was saving a child from a dangerous game. Sherlock knew the tone of voice and the look on John’s face and didn’t argue with John taking the knife away from him. The doctor then knelt down near the couch, slowly taking hold of Sherlock’s wrist to pull his arm up into the shallow light of the reading lamp that stood on a nearby table. He observed the wounds and Sherlock watched him. He watched John’s facial expression change as his eyes looked over the many lines Sherlock had carved into his arm. In places the blood had dried to his skin, in others it was still shimmering in the light.

John was taking far too long. It was obvious what needed to happen. The wounds needed to be cleaned and perhaps some of them needed bandages. A select few might even qualify for stitching. Yet, John remained unmoved. Although, unmoved might not be the right word to use in this context. He was very much moved. He turned Sherlock’s arm slowly, carefully and examined every wound individually. They’d been made with such strange precision. As if their placement had a meaning, like every single line could tell him something about Sherlock that the detective would never speak of. Therefore asking was futile. It was quite possible that Sherlock didn’t even realize he’d carved answers into his arm.

And a moment later John had moved closer, overcome the distance between them and his lips connected to those of the detective for the first time. He was vaguely aware that he’d just come back from a date, one of the few ones that had actually been successful, and now he was kissing his best friend. But the truth was that there was nothing that John would rather be doing. There was no one that spoke to John as much as Sherlock did, by saying absolutely nothing.


End file.
